


Petrichor

by Bridgr6



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Bear Island adventures, Childhood Memories, Did I mention fluff?, Early Days, F/M, Family Fluff, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Mama Mormont, and now there are feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:08:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25032973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bridgr6/pseuds/Bridgr6
Summary: A collection of memories from Jorah's childhood on Bear Island.
Relationships: Jeor Mormont & Jorah Mormont, Jeor Mormont/Original Female Character(s), Jorah Mormont & Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter I

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, world, here is the fic that will contain all of my Mormont family fluff. I'll admit I'm a bit nervous about sharing this one because I'm straying from the familiarity of Jorleesi, but sometimes in life we must risk it for the biscuit (and fluff) lol. Also, Jorah is just a little bit younger here than in the last smolbear appearance and there is more Lady Mormont/Jeor romance.
> 
> PSA - This fic is heavyyyy with the fluff and I took some creative liberties with Jeor Mormont/the climate of Bear Island. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! <3

_Lady Mormont_

The warm weather has overstayed its welcome...at least that's the impression Jeor's tossing and turning gives me as we lay side by side in the humid confines of our bedchamber. Every few minutes, Jeor huffs, stands, and removes another layer of clothing, repeating the process until he is left in nothing more than thin trousers. The blankets and furs have already been cast aside in a desperate attempt to find cooler air.

My husband curses under his breath and settles down beside me again. We don't touch. It's far too warm to share body heat, so we lay apart, both staring up at the ceiling. My eyes trail the glistening stone overhead, watching small droplets of water build in the trapped heat.

_Even the walls are sweating._

In all my years on Bear Island, I have never felt weather this warm beyond the Stony Shore. Instead of cooling with the natural decline into winter, the temperatures seem to climb each day, wearing at the patience of every resident. Bear Islanders don't appreciate surprises or sudden change. Jeor understands this better than anyone, having spent the last few days listening to the gripes and complaints of the people. Although he is happy to lead and proud to serve, I know he has grown weary of the constant grumbling. Earlier that afternoon, on a quick pass through the kitchen, I heard him mutter as much to the only ears available.

_"What do they expect me to do?" Jeor asked aloud, sitting beneath the kitchen window, his arm resting on Jorah's shoulder while his hand combed through golden locks absentmindedly. "It's not as if I control the weather."_

_Jorah listened quietly, too young to fully understand his father's troubles but content to linger in his company._

_"I told ol' Hayward Brumly to go dunk his head in the river if he's so bothered by the heat," Jeor chuckled to himself, pressing his head against the stone wall behind them._

_"Sage advice, my lord," I teased from overhead, peering out the window at my boys. "Though I must say, you're looking a bit over-heated yourself." With an accompanying grin, I slid a goblet of water to the edge of the windowsill, just far enough for Jeor to notice._

_His brow rose in a silent dare._

_I scooted the goblet a bit further, watching it teeter on the edge._

_"Lass…" Jeor warned, but it was too late._

_"Oops," I mouthed, lifting the cup and dumping the water over his head._

_Jeor's low growl disappeared beneath high-pitched laughter as Jorah got caught in the shower. My husband tried for sternness, but there was no mistaking the warmth in his eyes when he tipped his head back to meet mine._

_An hour later, he attempted to return the favor with a bucket of water in the stables but was thwarted by our loyal steeds. The moment he stepped into view, they whinnied in recognition, giving him away. He moved to conceal the bucket from view, but I had already spotted it._

_Our eyes met._

_He shrugged, trying for nonchalance._

_And I dashed out the opposite end of the stable._

_By the time Jeor caught up with me_ — _one_ _strong arm wrapping around my waist, lifting me off of my feet_ — _most of the water had sloshed out of the bucket, leaving only a few drops for him to pour over my head._

_Lost in our little game, we forgot all about the scorching heat. Why not enjoy the afternoon? With everyone else cowering from the sun, there was little work to be done. It granted my husband a bit of freedom from his usual duties, which I treasured. Just as I treasured the rarity of his playful spirit._

_"Perhaps the heat has gone to my head," he reasoned._

_But I knew better._

I know better.

"What are you grinning about?" Jeor grumbles, pulling me from my pleasant reminiscing and back to the present, where sunny days have turned to damp nights.

"You." I surprise him with blatant honesty.

He shifts beneath my gaze. "Are you trying to distract me?"

"Is it working?"

"No," he mutters, his words fading into a final groan of misery as he hauls himself out of bed. In place of restless sighing, he takes up restless pacing. Each time he crosses the room, his eyes flicker to the window. Finally, after another lap in front of the bed, he turns to me. I raise my head just enough to meet his gaze. With a half-pleading look, he tilts his head towards the open window.

I smile in agreement. "You get Jorah and I'll grab the blankets."

Jeor nods, relieved, and goes in search of our son.

Thrilled at the idea of a night beneath the stars, I move quickly to gather the discarded blankets and furs. By the time I stumble out of the room, my arms are full, and I'm forced to rely on memory to maneuver the dark corridors.

But my efforts are rewarded the moment I step over the threshold. Fresh air rushes forward to greet me. Gone is the stale heat of indoors and in its place rises a cool breeze leftover from the sea. It's the same air that echoes in hollow caves and whispers between blades of grass.

I inhale greedily and tilt my head back, allowing my eyes to close.

 _Thank the Gods_.

Laughter bubbles in my chest as nature responds with a gentle sweep of air beneath my hair, lifting the burdening weight off my neck and twisting it around my face. It will be a mess to detangle in the morning, but I am too lost in the moment to care.

Refreshed and relaxed, I remember my task. It takes but a moment to find a flat stretch of land on the outskirts of our home. Mindful of the wind, I open the blankets and spread them out across the grass, forming a makeshift bed. I sit down quickly to keep them from flying away.

Soft and familiar giggles draw my attention back towards the entrance of the keep. Jeor walks down the hill towards me, eyes bright, open shirt flapping in the wind. My smile widens as I spot Jorah slung over his shoulder like a sack of grain.

 _So that is what took them so long,_ I conclude, taking note of Jorah's laughter and my husband's heavy breathing—both clear signs of roughhousing.

"A delivery for the lady," Jeor announces, lowering Jorah onto the blankets beside me before settling on his other side. The three of us sit together quietly for a moment, gazing up at the stars overhead.

It is easy to become distracted by the busyness of day and forget the beauty of night, but I am grateful for the reminder.

 _Grateful for so much more_ , I think, watching my boys.

"Both hands…" Jeor murmurs, guiding Jorah's hands, one over the other, into deliberate form. I recognize the intended shape before he raises their hands to cast a shadow onto the stone wall behind us. The bright and clear sky lends well for this familiar show of silhouettes.

I grin my approval as the dark outline of a bear appears. It is misshapen and small, but Jorah beams with pride.

"A little bear, just like you," I praise, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

After learning a few more shapes, Jorah grows tired and looks to his father for a story. Eager as always to share a tale of old, Jeor lays on his back and lifts his arms overhead, forming shadows in sync with words. His movements are confident and smooth, shifting to animals found in the woods outside of home—a bear, a wolf, a rabbit, even a fox.

I prop myself up on one elbow for a better view.

But my eyes aren't fixed on stone and shadows…no, I'm far more interested in the man leading the show. A faint smile molds itself to Jeor's voice as he picks up on my wandering attention.

I watch in amusement as Jorah tries to fight the pull of sleep, eyes drooping in battle with exhaustion. Eventually the low rumble of his father's voice works its magic, carrying the little bear off to the land of dreams. After a final incoherent mumble, Jorah burrows into the space between us, limbs askew, with one hand resting against Jeor's chest and the other gripping my arm.

Jeor lets his voice trail off and his arms fall. A familiar warmth swells in his eyes—a reflection of the deep joy he rarely gives voice to. This time it's not directed at me but the sleeping boy between us.

"I forgot one." he whispers, regaining my attention.

I lift an eyebrow in silent inquiry.

Jeor reaches over to grasp my hand, tugging it towards him gently. In the same way he shaped Jorah's hand earlier, he molds my fingers into a strange arc. Momentary confusion dissipates as his other hand finds mine, fingers curving into an identical half-circle. A shadow forms behind us.

My chest flutters in recognition of the shape formed by our joined hands

_A heart._

The gesture is sweet and sentimental in a way that makes me reach for the man only an arm's length away. Pleased with my response, Jeor slips his fingers beneath mine and pulls them in for a kiss.

My cheeks flush and this time it has nothing to do with warm weather.


	2. Chapter II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me just warn that this chapter is a bit more somber than my usual updates. The second half features feels over Mama Mormont's death, but I still kept things somewhat vague (hopefully not confusing), as to allow for a little warmth towards the end. This may not be everyone's cup of tea, which is A-OK, I promise! In my defense, though, I was listening to film scores (as one does lol) while writing this…and there were some cellos and erhus involved…so is it even my fault, really? Must I be blamed?
> 
> There is a small passage of time (maybe a year or so) between Lady Mormont's (aka Jorah's mother) and Maege's POVs, so keep that in mind.

_Lady Mormont_

It's the shifting of covers that awakens me, cool air hitting exposed skin and pulling me from pleasant dreams. My hand immediately lifts to swat my husband. Historically speaking, he is the usual suspect for stolen blankets. For a man who insists on sleeping with the window open, Jeor sure enjoys the warm cocoon of furs.

A soft whisper brushes against my ear, and for a moment, as a distant roll of thunder echoes through the half-open window, I think maybe the storm woke me instead. Perhaps the light tapping of rain against the window sounded too much like a knock at the door, or the wind too much like Jeor's low grumbles.

But I know better; I've battled through enough storms to calm them in my dreams.

Another whisper and small fingers grip my arm.

"Mama, I'm scared."

I sit up quickly at the sound of Jorah's voice, suddenly wide awake. It's rare for him to stir in the middle of the night. Even rarer for him to come to our room. Yet, there he is, reaching over the side the bed, eyes bright with unshed tears. His chin wrinkles and wobbles, his bottom lip curving as another thunderous boom shakes our home.

"It's alright, I'm here," I whisper, turning to him with open arms. In one swift movement, I sweep him up while carefully sliding from the bed. His arms loop around my neck and I balance his weight with one arm, leaving the other free to rub soothing circles across his back.

Flashes of light cut across the keep, breaking through the glass windows to bounce off stone walls. It's a pleasant dance of light, fractured yet beautiful. And it illuminates the dark corridors enough for me to walk without stumbling. Even Jorah seems to enjoy the bright flickers…without the unannounced booms and claps of thunder.

"What about Papa?" Jorah asks in a quick whisper, peeking over my shoulder. There's worry in his eyes as he stares back at our chambers.

"Papa will be fine," I assure him with a smothered grin. _Even the Gods can't wrench Jeor Mormont from his deafening snores._

I walk until the sound of rain grows louder and blends into my soft footsteps. Without a destination in mind, my feet carry us to the back entrance of the keep, where a massive door with ancient frames stands between us and the storm. There's a slight lip in the stone arch outside that will serve well as a safe place to watch the storm.

I hum in consideration and press a quick kiss to Jorah's hair before hiking him up further on my hip. My cheek rests close to his as I murmur, "It's okay to be afraid, Jorah. We all have our fears."

"Even you?"

"Even me."

"And Papa?"

I smile sadly. "Papa too." The memory of a not-so-distant argument between Jeor and I is proof enough.

_"It's not about pride! It's about taking care of you and our boy…I can't lose you."_

_"You won't. We aren't going anywhere, Jeor."_

My fingers brush against the door in front of us, ready to push it open. "We don't have to overcome all of our fears, Jorah…but sometimes the things that scare us most aren't as scary when we face them together."

Another roll of thunder, another flinch from Jorah. But this time he doesn't hide his face. Instead, his eyes flicker to mine.

I smile softly. _Trust me, little bear._

Jorah doesn't want to face what's ahead—it's evident in the firm grip he maintains on the sleeve of my nightdress—and in many ways I don't either. His fears are my fears, if only for the pain they cause him. But it's a lesson in love and trust to lean into each other, to brave the storm, to face the dealings of fate and stand firm in support of hope.

"Together," I whisper, as with one hand, I open the door.

* * *

_Maege Mormont_

It's not the storm outside that keeps me awake, although the clamor does little to aid my restless state. No, my constant exhaustion is rooted in something far deeper, something extending beyond the disruptive spirit of nature.

The truth is, no matter how hard it may try, the thunder cannot banish the silence that has settled within the keep, nor can the lightning brighten the darkness of empty rooms…rooms that shouldn't be empty…halls that shouldn't be silent.

It's impossible to measure the absence of someone so beloved, but there I lay, trying to recall a dear friend and days less somber.

Perhaps that's what we are all trying to do—remember. And in our fight to cling to the past we have forgotten the present. Why else has our home grown so empty? Why else do we roam as if death came for us all?

Behind it all lies worry and pain, layered thick in a defense that keeps us distant from each other.

_You're not the only one who lost her. You would do well to remember that, Jeor._

Still, the fight is not a physical one, no matter how harsh the words may seem. That would certainly make things easier—to take up arms in defense of all we have lost. But who would we fight, if not ourselves? There is no face to the enemy that is human emotion, no matter how much it has cost us. And we have paid a high price…for what is grief if not the price of love?

The noise outside continues to grow.

The silence of the keep remains.

I think of my sister-in-law and her endless joy.

I think of my brother and the days he smiled.

_Fools, all of us,_ I determine, staring up at the ceiling, cursing the Gods.

A quiet knock at the door breaks the silence and I sit up quickly.

In the wake of his wife's death, Jeor has become neglectful of many things, his duties as lord included. It's his door they should be knocking at, not mine. Though, I know he would not answer. He's not there—not physically and certainly not emotionally—not in the ways he is needed. They would be better off wandering down to the sea, to the little hut that sits perched on the rocky cliffs. That's where Jeor has been holed up for weeks now, too afraid to enter his own home lest the ghost of love come calling.

Impatient though I may be, I will always do what I can to help the stubborn oaf. But I won't act in his stead forever. We are family, but tough love is still love. Once I have rediscovered solid ground for myself, I will march down to that hut and drag Jeor out myself, if that's what it takes.

It's what _she_ would want.

_You can't let him mope forever, Maege. Don't let grief consume him._

Halfway into putting on my coat, I watch as the door opens just enough for a single blue eye to peek through at hip level.

"Aunt Maege," Jorah whispers, rather loudly. He sounds afraid to wake the she-bear, but a fear of something greater must give him courage, for he opens the door wider without permission.

"You should be in bed," I say, stepping into view. My words are simple fact ill fitted to scold. He _should_ be in bed sleeping but so should I.

Jorah blinks carefully as his eyes adjust to the darkness of the room. A clap of thunder rattles the window between us, and he sucks in a breath, clearly startled.

My eyes dart between my nephew's fearful gaze and the soundless echo of lightning across the room. Without question, I understand the reason for his visit. In a time where everything feels impossibly difficult, the innocence of his fear is almost reassuring. The boy is still a boy after all. And there are still problems that can be solved.

It gives me an idea.

"Come on, then," I huff, brushing past him into the hallway.

On the short trip to the kitchen, I keep my eyes focused ahead. There's no need to look back; I can feel Jorah walking right on my heels, his hand rising occasionally to grip the back of my coat. He doesn't make a sound, nor does he speak, as I rummage through the cluttered shelves of the kitchen. He watches and waits, lingering close, peeking around tall tables when I move out of view. I reach behind him to snag one of the metal buckets near the door before retrieving an oversized and unwashed soup spoon from the sink.

With both items wedged beneath my arm, I move to the small door built into the back wall of the room. As the side entrance to the keep, it boasts an open view of the forest beyond the stone fortress. I can already hear the tap of rain against the old wood. Once the door is open, there will be nothing to stop the downpour.

Perhaps my plan is a bit foolish. Although it may not be winter yet, it certainly isn't warm enough to be dancing in the early morning rain. And who's to say it will even work? There are far better ways to comfort a child. No doubt my sister-in-law would have calmed Jorah's fears with kind words and gentle kisses. She would have made him laugh. She would have turned sadness to joy.

_But she is not here._ _And I am not her._

The impulsivity of my actions is not for Jorah alone, although being needed, if only to vanquish fear, feels like an offering of something greater…a chance to right the wrongs of a cruel world. Part of me is selfish enough to realize that this journey outside the keep is as much for myself as it is for Jorah. There's a staleness to the air of mourning that has trapped us in our home for long enough.

_We need to breathe again_ , I sigh, glancing down at Jorah. After a long moment of watching his expression shift from apprehensive to determined, I lift my free hand and open the door.

A curtain of water immediately slashes through the open space. For a moment, I think of taking a step back to avoid the barrage, but instead, I lean into it. We came to banish fear, not cower away from it.

"Stay here," I tell Jorah. In an attempt to dampen some of the natural bite of my tone, I brush a hand over his head lightly.

Then, with the determination of a woman headed into battle, I step out into the storm. My bare feet gain little traction against the muddy ground, but I still manage a sloppy fighting stance. I grip the kitchenware like weapons. Although the spoon is lighter than a sword and the pot heavier than a shield, they serve as weapons for an important battle.

I'm quickly reminded of my foolishness as the rain starts to soak through my coat and tangle my hair. Small rivulets of water cascade down my back while I await the next rumble of the sky. Jorah watches from the entryway, curious but confused.

It's not long before the slow build of thunder ripples through the air, swelling like waves across a sea, allowing a sharp crackle to finally break free. At that exact moment, when the air itself feels as though it will shatter into a million fragile pieces beneath the quaking sky, I raise my weapons. In an act befitting the court fool, I crash the spoon against the bottom of the metal bucket with as much strength as I can muster. It's not a collision of nature, but the resulting sound is loud and sharp enough to rival one. Even the thunder seems to stop short in astonishment.

I glance back towards Jorah. A timid smile blossoms across his face. He leans forward as far as he can without getting soaked by the rain, watching me with enough wonder to nullify my doubts.

Encouraged, I repeat the motion, banging the spoon against the bucket again, and again, and again, until a new emotion rises to take the place of sober weariness. When the lightning arcs in a downward pitch a moment later, it dulls in comparison to the sudden anger that warms my skin. In some vain attempt to be heard, I shout to the sky like a madwoman, roaring until my lungs burn with the effort. I don't know if I'm yelling _at_ the Gods or with them, but it eases some of the discontent from my bones.

The wind howls along with me, rising from the ground, building with each collision of metal and wood. It ruffles the grass and bends the trees. Slowly but surely, the island wakes with the steady beat of my makeshift drum.

No more sorrow, no more mournful rest.

We don't have to sit in silence to honor her, nor do we have to stand still to preserve her memory. We can be loud and laugh and love like before, just as she did.

A strange laugh takes the place of my anger, bubbling up from mid-chest before I can stop it. The sound is shaky and breaks on the edge of tears. It lacks the brightness of humor but carries the tone of long-awaited peace. I close my eyes and tip my head upward in a gesture of gratitude.

Eventually, I drop the bucket and glance back towards the keep, extending my hand in invitation. Jorah hesitates a moment before stepping into the rain with me. More thunder vibrates behind the sky, yet he barely takes notice. From inside the narrow corridors of the keep, the thunder had sounded like a ferocious beast clawing its way into our home. Now, out in the open air, it's nothing more than mimicable noise.

Jorah's boots slip a little against the soft ground, but when he comes to a stop beside me, he finds sturdiness in the grip of my proffered hand.

Lifting my gaze to the sky, I notice a change in the horizon. Small spots of color, bright and warm, start to peek out from behind the clouds. As if sensing the approaching sun, the rain slows to a gentle drizzle and the air grows quiet.

"It's nearly over," I murmur, more to myself than to Jorah, as I watch nature take its course.

One thing is certain, there are more battles and more losses ahead. It's as inevitable as the sunshine that follows rain. We can't dread the future any more than we should dwell in the past.

Let us recognize the beauty of the present.

I give Jorah's hand a gentle squeeze.

Suddenly, the ground feels steadier beneath my feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, you brave souls. 
> 
> Also, as a general note, I don't actually think it's a great idea to run outside with metal in a thunderstorm lol. So just ignore those little details.


	3. Chapter III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa, it feels like it's been forever. But life, amirite? *nervous chuckle* Seriously, though, sorry it's been so long. I definitely intend to update my other projects soon (and one other fluffy new thing), but I liked the idea of posting to this smaller fic first. It's a sadder chapter again and takes place right after the last one, so Jeor is grieving and hiding out in his hut on Bear Island. I hope to return to some fluffier chapters (with Mama Mormont alive), but I also might do a chapter for Jorah as a young-ish adult. Also, this update was inspired by the amazing Jeor/Jorah feels found in salzrand's most recent graphic novel *heart eyes*
> 
> Hope ya enjoy. Thanks for reading, pals <3

_Jeor Mormont_

The first time I hear the knocking, it barely registers as more than a dream. The sound breaks through my mental fog as something distant and hollow, part of an impossible fantasy where my love walks through the door, alive and well, just as I remember her. It’s absurd, and yet even from my slouched position beneath the window, I lift my head to peer at the door, waiting, breath held in anticipation. If it’s her, if it’s truly her, she’ll open that door herself, eager for the chance to wake me sweet words and soft kisses.

But the door remains closed.

The second time I hear the knocking, a day later, I think it’s Maege come to drag me back to reality. No doubt she’s grown tired of leading in my stead. Again, I raise my head from the floor in anticipation, but this time my expression is anything but welcoming. I’ll fight tooth and nail to remain in place, stubborn fool that I am. _Even as my heart craves the rescue_. But I know my sister would never knock so politely, nor so gently. Her foot would already be halfway through the entryway.

So the door remains closed.

From then on, there’s a knock each morning. No matter the day, no matter the weather. It’s always the same—three sharp raps followed by a long pause and retreating footsteps. Sometimes there’s timid pacing. Sometimes the footsteps linger. But never more than three knocks.

Although I have yet to answer these calls, I know who issues them. There’s only one person left in this world who would bother—my boy. _Our boy_. It should be enough to pull me from my corner of isolation, to lure me back into the shell of my former self, but I remain in place, too drunk on precious memories to welcome the present in anything more than distant sound.

But the pattern is broken a few days later, as three knocks become one. The small tap is short and hollow and followed by the sound of a small hand brushing against wood, slipping away. I lean forward a bit, ears titled, waiting for the other raps. But they never come. The echo of that single knock is all that remains. My mouth slips open, and for the first time in a long time, I sit up fully.

_Is this what you wish to teach our boy, Jeor? That he should give up on the people he loves?_

Shame swells in my chest, guilt too…

“No,” I rasp, feeling the ghost of _her_ words press against my heart. I can almost see her there, standing with one hand on her hip, the other gesturing towards the door as if to say, _“Well, then what are you waiting for?”_

It’s enough to have me stumbling to my feet and towards the door. In one desperate pull, I wrench the thing open, ready to face reality at last, if only to banish her reproachful stare. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the blinding rays of sun, but even as I raise my hand to block them out, I see that Jorah isn’t there. Blinking away black dots, I scan the land ahead in search of a familiar head of blonde hair.

For one staggering moment, I worry it was all in my mind…that my guilt and grief had conjured the sounds as part of another dream. _No_. I glance down at a trail of small footprints in the mud. _He was here._ I venture out the doorway and up the hill, moving slowly on stiff limbs, trying to ignore the aches and pains of an aging body. The strength and grace I bore as head of house is long gone. More than once, I trip on familiar land.

Near the top of the hill, I finally spot Jorah’s silhouette bobbing below the trees, just beyond the small path that leads back to the Keep. I call out to him, but my voice gets lost beneath the raging sea behind me. The watery cliffs moan, the grass grows taller, the sky darker. I call out again. Louder. And at last Jorah turns, surprised to hear my voice.

My son doesn’t run to me in excitement, nor does he stomp away in anger. His approach is slow and timid, caught somewhere in the middle. From a distance he looks taller, broader. _I haven’t been gone that long. He's still just a boy._ So I tell myself it’s an illusion cast by the shadow of the bow slung over his shoulder.

“Father,” Jorah says, stopping a few paces in front of me. To him, I’m no longer 'papa'...just 'father'. A title and nothing more.

We stand in the path, between the rolling hills, facing each other. The distance between us stretches beyond things physical, and I, like him, cast my eyes to the dirt and sky. After a while, I open my mouth to speak, to offer an apology or words of comfort, but nothing escapes. I should’ve said those things long ago. What good would they do us now?

My eyes drop to the small bow in his hand, and a promise I made long ago rings in my ears. _“I’ll teach you how to use the bow soon, son.”_

But I never did.

Perhaps there’s still one vow I can keep.

“Alright then,” I say, clearing my throat and nodding towards the tree line ahead. “Let’s go.” Jorah hesitates at first, confused, but once I tug the quiver from his arm and stride ahead, he quickly follows.

“This will do,” I announce, as we come to a clearing in the forest. The space is free of heavy foliage and large enough for basic practice. It’s no training yard, but it’ll suffice. My eyes glide to the middle of the clearing, to where a tall oak stands alone, ancient and elegant, with limbs that rise high enough to merge with the sun. The tangled mass of its truck reminds me of a weirwood. And a small part of me wishes it were so. _If only we could stand here and make targets of the Gods._

In recent weeks, I’ve thought a lot about the Old Gods, but it hasn’t been in prayer. For years, I bowed before them, exposing my heart, my soul—all that made me human. And in one fell swoop they slit my throat, just to keep me on my knees. They must’ve forgotten it was my wife who made me a believer all those years ago, because with her gone, I have nothing for them. No love. No loyalty. I’ll never forgive them for stealing her away. Never.

“That one,” I instruct, steering Jorah by the shoulders until he's in line with the tree. Before setting the quiver aside, I withdraw an arrow. “Like this,” I murmur, as with one hand I demonstrate how to nock the arrow. It’s a familiar practice and one I’ve performed a hundred times since I myself was a lad, despite my preference for blades. “Relaxed stance, now…not too tightly.” I shift Jorah’s grip on the bow to ensure he doesn’t strike his forearm on release. Then, with the same hand, I arrange his fingers along the bowstring.

Soon, all that’s left is the draw, a challenging step for most beginners. After studying Jorah’s form—arm raised at shoulder-height, legs squared—I tap my fingers against his back lightly, right between his shoulder blades. “Pull from here, not your arms. It’s tempting to use what’s familiar, but you’ll only exhaust yourself.”

Jorah’s eyes flicker to me. He nods.

Satisfied, I circle behind him, bending at the waist to study the target from his line-of-sight. I mutter a few final instructions, “Eyes ahead…steady aim…and then release.”

There’s a moment of hushed silence after Jorah draws the bow back—the birds stop their chatter, the trees no longer creak, the wind holds in place—and then, with one shuttering breath, the world regains motion. The arrow twists and turns through the air, whistling a deadly tune as it searches for a place to rest. Experience tells me a center shot won’t happen on the first attempt, but I watch with eager eyes nonetheless, hoping to make a mark in the heart of the tree.

With a dull _thwack,_ the arrow falls short and settles at the base of the trunk. Jorah drops his arm in defeat, and his shoulders follow suit. He casts a glance my way, no doubt trying to gauge my reaction. Really, it’s not a bad first attempt. Better than mine. Better than other boys his age. I briefly consider scolding his willingness to quit, if only to remind him that Mormonts don’t bow so easily in defeat. But another voice rises before my own, to remind me of my own failures. _And what is it you’ve done, my love, if not give up?_ My fists clench and I try to shake off the echoes of that haunting, beautiful voice. I imagine her standing off to the side, watching with folded arms, taunting me further. _Perhaps you should both try again._

Before stepping away to retrieve another arrow, I give Jorah a stiff nod, following the ghost of his mother’s words, “Again.”

Careful to make the minor adjustments, I check Jorah’s stance and steady his grip. His posture is too rigid, his gaze too narrowed, his fingers too tense. It’s a beginner’s frustration, I know. Something that fades with time and practice. For now, all that comes to mind is the simple advice passed on by my own father, years ago, as he handed me my first sword. I press my palms flat against Jorah’s shoulders to ease the tension, saying, “Don’t think about it. Don’t question it. The space between you and the enemy is the business of Gods.”

It’s impossible to ignore the bitter truth of the words, and the lessons I’ve learned since hearing them for the first time, all those years ago. In truth, a warrior’s strength can only carry them so far. For it’s no great secret that the Gods, Old and New, maintain a fruitful relationship with mortality. In the end, it's the Gods who decide the fate of us all. Should they decide to sell our souls to Death, so be it.

Beside me, Jorah draws the arrow back again. This time with renewed determination. The caution of earlier is gone and with it, a certain level of fear. Not all of it, though...he still leans away from the bow, wary of its motion. “Closer to your face. Don’t be afraid of it,” I remind him, with a gentle nudge. He nods again, muttering my instructions to himself, committing them to memory. His fingers tighten on the bowstring.

A slow inhale.

A wiry snap.

The arrow finds its target.

“Well done, boy!” The praise is out of my mouth before metal and wood settle. All signs of defeat vanish as Jorah turns to me with a bright smile. It’s a small victory, and one that won’t last beyond the day, but I can’t deny the swell of pride. Before handing him another arrow, I swipe my hand across Jorah’s hair affectionately. “Well done,” I repeat, quieter, and with another glance at the arrow embedded in the tree.

Jorah practices a few more times, until the arrows are gone and his fingertips ache from the pluck of the bowstring. “A good leather tab will fix that,” I explain, gesturing to the raw skin of his fingers. “I’ll talk to your mother ab—" I stop. A familiar wave of pain rushes in; the ache of grief. My eyes close. It’s the first time I’ve spoken of her aloud, and not even by name.

“Papa?” Jorah speaks softly, worried by my sudden silence. When I open my eyes again, I look to the sky and trees. I look at anything but the boy beside me, lest I be confronted by a reflection of my own loss. Or worse, the pain I’ve caused my only son. “We should return to the Keep,” I say, more gruffly than before.

The return trip is made in silence, and once the castle looms into view, Jorah rushes ahead to where Maege stands near the entrance. Her expression softens into an almost-smile as he brushes past. Clearly, she’s been awaiting his return. But when her eyes turn to me, they narrow in suspicion, as if to question my intentions. _Will you stay or will you go?_ We both know the answer, even if it’s not spoken aloud. It's part of a long and painful conversation we'll have soon enough. I can already hear the disapproval, the scolding, the eventual anger. She’ll say Jorah’s too young, that he can hardly lift a blade, let alone wield it properly. _Let him be a boy, Jeor. Don’t burden him with the responsibility of leadership so soon_. And she’ll be right. But grief turns the heart selfish, and I can’t stay forever. I won’t.

With a shake of her head, Maege turns to follow Jorah inside, leaving me to my own misery. I know she thinks I’m too obstinate and too blind to see what’s in front of me; the frequent glaring does little to hide her thoughts. But she doesn’t see the ways in which Jorah has already proven himself stronger than me. _He will move on. I won't._

“Forgive me,” I whisper, in apology for things past, present, and future—for losing his mother, for abandoning him, for fleeing to a place where her ghost won’t follow.

The very next day, we trade the bow for swords.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I once heard that the goal of archery is to try to try so that you can try not to try. And I have no idea what that means.


End file.
